


Miami Thrice

by Callisparrow



Category: Genesis (Band)
Genre: 1980s, Gen, M/M, Miami Vice - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-17
Updated: 2015-04-17
Packaged: 2018-03-23 09:18:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3762688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callisparrow/pseuds/Callisparrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The year is 1986, Genesis is on tour for Invisible Touch, and Mike has developed a new obsession with a certain Miami cop show. As time goes on, he finds himself drifting deeper into a pastel-colored fantasy of vice... Miami Vice, that is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I love Genesis. I also love Miami Vice. The two go together like chocolate and peanut butter, so naturally I had to write a little fic about it, Not a true crossover, but more like Mike's daydreams about the show.

“Hurry up, it’s starting!”

Mike eagerly hammered the volume button on the remote and threw himself back on the bed. His light blue eyes shone with childlike anticipation as the commercial break finally came to a close.

“Comfy?” Phil asked with a bright smile, settling in next to him. He had gathered up a large feather comforter to shield them from the strangely wintry chill in their hotel, but mostly it was an excuse to sit close and cuddle during the show. Mike didn’t mind, in fact he loved the security of warmth and contact between them, even if he wasn’t always very articulate about these feelings. But this hour was precious to him for a different reason.

They were finally on break, on tour in America. And it was time for his new favorite show to begin.

“Tony, where’s our popcorn?” Phil demanded. “Come along, you’re missing it.”

Tony grumbled as he emerged from the kitchenette, bearing a large bowl of salted and buttered popcorn. He sat down next to Phil and handed the snacks to him before crossing his arms and staring sullenly at the TV.

“Lighten up, Tony,” Phil laughed. “You’d think this was some kind of torture.”

“I don’t like American TV,” Tony muttered.

“Why naw?” Phil said, chewing around a huge mouthful of popcorn. “S’no worse than the telly back home, really. Same old sleaze.” He grinned as Tony only deepened his disapproving pout. “Aww, you can always leave. Nobody’s holding a gun to your head.”

“What, like him?” Tony indicated the scene now playing out. A tense drug transfer was taking place on a boat, just before the goons opened fire on the police now giving chase. Bodies crashed into the water as the drug boat violently exploded in a spray of sparks and flame.

“Hah, yeah, like that.”

“Shhh,” Mike scolded, utterly absorbed by the events on the screen. “I can’t hear.” Phil smiled and shut his mouth, but it didn’t stop him from bobbing his head slightly to the opening bouncy riffs of “Eminence Front” that floated over the scene.

The next half-hour or so passed without incident, save for the commercial breaks that Mike hated so. He was glad for the mute button, even if it meant having to listen to Tony’s snide remarks. Which of course Phil found very amusing.

“So wait a minute,” Phil was saying, “that woman… erm, what’s-er-name…”

“The prostitute?”

“No no, the madam. What was she called?”

“Oh. Um.” Mike was embarrassed to admit he had forgotten the character’s name too. “Well, it doesn’t matter…”

“Batista.”

Mike and Phil turned to look at Tony, who was casually picking through the remaining kernels of popcorn. He stared back in the silence that followed.

“What?” he said indignantly after a pause. “That’s her name.”

“I thought you didn’t like this show!” Phil teased in a sing-song voice.

“Well I don’t, but I have to pay attention to something,” Tony huffed. He crossed his arms tighter and tucked his hands into his sleeves. For some reason he had refused the warmth of the comforter before, but he didn’t protest as Phil flashed him a sympathetic look and draped the covers around him, snuggling closer into Tony’s shoulder.

“We like you here anyway,” Phil murmured. “Got to keep you warm…”

“Hm,” was all Tony said, but he softly rested his cheek against Phil’s forehead.

“Anyway,” Phil continued, “I forgot what I wanted to ask now.”

Tony smirked and glanced over at Mike, but he was already turning up the sound as the program came back from break. There was no interrupting his concentration this hour, that much was clear. Tony felt his own attention wander from the rhythmic thwack, thwack of the sinister jai-alai game unfolding onscreen… what sort of sport was jai-alai supposed to be, anyway…

“How’d you like to be on the show?” Phil whispered, nudging Tony in the side. “I might arrange that for you.” He laughed at Tony’s hugely skeptical expression.

“I don’t think so. I— oh!” Tony and Mike reacted at the same time as the scene changed and “Mercy Street” played on the soundtrack. “Well, there’s Pete, anyway!”

“Awight,” Phil cheered. “How about you, Mike? Wanna be on the show?”

“Nooooooo…!” Mike moaned in dismay.

“Oh. Well, it was just a suggestion,” Phil said.

“What? Oh sorry, it was just… didn’t you see what happened? He shot her. The madam who framed the cop’s brother, now he’s killed her and his brother is dead too. He thought he had nothing to lose, I suppose. But wow.” He sat back and grinned, shaking his head. Plot resolutions in the world of Vice were a swift punch to the gut sometimes.

“Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention,” Phil replied. “Tony was distracting me. Talking as much as he does, you know him.”

“I was not,” Tony insisted, but he couldn’t help smiling. “You were the one blathering about getting us on the show.”

“Ah. He says he’d be thrilled,” Phil said, turning to Mike with a wink.

“I did not!”

Mike smiled languidly as he listened to them mock-argue and reached across to gently comb Tony’s hair with his fingers. Tony paid no attention but it made Mike smile; he was so endearing when he pretended to be angry. But as the next show started and his attention drifted from the screen, he began to think about what Phil had said.

Guest stars on the show? Impossible. Acting for music videos was challenging enough.

Then again. If Phil could do it…

For some strange reason the idea seemed more appealing all the time.


	2. Chapter 2

“We’re looking for Phil Mayhew.”

The petite blonde looked the two newcomers up and down suspiciously. The one who spoke, a man with curling dark hair and a strikingly angular face, wore a light gray tailored suit and conspicuously shiny black leather shoes. But his companion, the very tall man with sad blue eyes and a sandy beard, might have been more at home on the beaches, with his loose khaki slacks and breezy china-patterned blue-on-white shirt.

They had to be the strangest pair of TV execs she had ever seen.

“Oh. I don’t remember seeing you with the network before. Friends of his?” she questioned. It might be possible to stall for time; Phil was still in the dressing room and if these were in fact cops in disguise, or worse, drug-ring associates of her late ex-boyfriend…

“Strictly business.” The dark-haired man spoke in a clipped, feather-soft voice accented a bit like Phil’s, but not quite. Although his voice fluttered lightly he somehow managed to make the words sound darkly aggressive at the same time. He began to walk past her down the narrow dingy hallway to the dressing rooms, ignoring the buzz and chatter of studio personnel as they milled about him.

“Wait! You can’t go back there, we’re on in five minutes!” She scrambled after them before the tall man gently, but firmly pushed her aside.

“The show can wait,” he said in a low voice. “He’ll understand.”

“Hey, wait a minute! Phil! PHIL!” She cried out helplessly as the two men forced their way into the dressing room.

From his seat at the grimy vanity mirror, Phil jumped and angrily turned to face them, his false black wig flying comically askew on his head.

“Oi! What’s going…” Phil’s outraged expression switched to pure terror in the space of a second. “Sssshit—”

He leaped up and practically flung himself over the vanity to escape into the bathroom, but the tall man was too quick. Phil felt his spine bang into the wall as two intensely strong fists smashed into his chest and pulled upwards on his suit collar. For an instant his feet actually left the floor. Papers and makeup kits scattered in all directions as Phil howled and kicked wildly at his assailant, but he only managed to knock various items off the tables. His wig had long since ended up on the floor as well.

“Sarah! Get out of here, run!” he shouted. But Sarah stood transfixed outside the dressing room, horrified.

“Let go of him!” she cried. By now the noise was starting to attract attention. She frantically grabbed the arm of the astounded floor manager.

"Quick, put on last week’s tape— no, don’t call the police whatever you do! Don’t tell anybody, just rerun last week’s show, hurry!" The manager pelted back to the control room, fear and confusion in her eyes.

"Sarah, is it? Come in and lock the door." The dark-haired man had produced a handgun, his voice soft and casual as he clicked the safety and aimed coolly at her head. Sarah watched him carefully, taking in the sight of his deep cold blue eyes and sensuous lips, now drawn into a hard line. Trembling, she stepped inside the room and locked the door behind her, keeping one eye on his stern features— and his gun— the whole time.

"Sarah, don’t come any closer," Phil pleaded.

"Who are they? What do you want with him?" she asked the two men. But they ignored her completely.

"What’s your hurry, Phil?" the taller one said, grinning at him. "Did we interrupt a hair appointment?"

"Fuck off," Phil spat, and choked as the fierce grip around his collar tightened even more.

“Phil, do you know them?” Sarah ventured. Phil squirmed in a vain attempt to escape.

“I know one of them. This goon, this one here… let go, will ya?” He stopped struggling long enough to scrutinize the man’s long face, and narrowed his eyes. “Yeah, I remember you. ‘Clooty,’ wasn’t it? I guess Jo’burg got too hot for you this time of year.” Phil immediately regretted this remark as a painful slap cracked across his ear. He whined.

“It’s winter there now, Mayhew. And if you keep on like this, I’d say it’s looking very cold for you indeed.” He waited out the struggle until Phil finally went limp in defeat.

"Fine, you win," Phil muttered, still very much aware of the other man’s drawn handgun. "I don’t keep weapons in this room, just let me go." The dark-haired man nodded.

"Go ahead, Michael."

The tall man did so, gently straightening the garish lapels of Phil’s sparkling silver jacket. “There, that’s better. Isn’t it easier when we all cooperate?”

The sound of a countdown beep from the wall-mounted television set made Sarah jump. She listened nervously as the cheesy synth-organ theme for last week’s Healin’ at Home blared over the speakers. There was Phil’s mug on the screen, his terrible fake hair piled high on his head, as he recited garbled scripture in the most appalling deep-south accent imaginable:

"Friends, I want you to belieeeeve in the healin’ power of Jeeeeezus. I want you to reach out and touch your screen, all of you watching at home, together now, touch the screen…!”

Even Sarah always had to cringe whenever Phil started with that voice, but somehow it made money for them just the same.

The dark-haired man rolled his eyes and bent down, plucking Phil’s awful wig from the floor where it fell. He toyed with it and eyed Phil’s natural light brown hair, thinning in front and plastered to his sweating forehead.

“I think I prefer his original look,” he said, sharing a smirking glance with his companion. “Just the right amount of sleaze.”

"Look, what is it you want?" Phil scowled. "Are you working for the cops or something? ‘Cuz I don’t go in for that drug racket no more. I run a respectable television program."

"Ah yes, the respectable business of fleecing the elderly," Michael commented in a low tone, and turned down the volume knob until the TV was silent.

“As it happens,” the dark-haired man continued, “we are not with the police. Mr. Cloete and I are business partners. We wanted to make you an offer.”

“Oh? And who are you? If you’re with Tony Rivers’ gang I suppose he neglected to tell you he was dead.” Phil winced and put a hand to his throbbing ear, checking for any blood.

"No. My name is Banks. And I must say it’s a risky thing, putting your face on TV like that," the dark-haired man said smoothly. "I seem to recall several incidents in England you might not want to remind people of— a certain thirty-thousand pound phony record deal stands out in my mind."

Phil’s eyes widened in fear.

"And then there’s the more recent business of escaping from the police with Rivers’ drug money," Banks continued, smiling slightly. "Congratulations on the clean getaway. Well, not entirely clean. I mean we did find you."

"Then you are his mob,” Phil stammered. “Look, I don’t know how you found out about the record deal, but that’s ancient history. I’ll pay you, I’ll pay the Soho boys anything they want, just don’t kill me, please…”

"Don’t even think of it, Mr. Mayhew. We came here to hire you."

Phil gaped at them. “Wot?”

"Your Miami connections, however feeble, are in fact useful to us. You will strengthen them. In return, we can offer you protection. And it would be nice to deal with a… familiar face, for a change."

"It reminds us of home," Michael added slyly.

"And if I don’t agree?"

"Well. I’m certain that Metro-Dade county is still interested in you…"

"All right, all right!" Phil threw up his hands. "What do you want me to tell you?"

"Let’s not talk here." Michael glanced at Sarah, still listening intently to their conversation. "Do you know the Salmacis Bar?"

"No, but I’m guessing you’re about to show me." Phil dusted off his suit jacket. "Er, can I at least change first?"

"Of course."

"And what about Sarah? Will you offer her protection, too?"

"We’ll discuss that when we get there. But for now, Mike…"

"Mike."

“Mike!!”

“Huh?”

Mike shook himself, startled completely out of his reverie. The vision of his imaginary gangster shakedown was replaced with the sight of Tony glaring at him from behind his keyboards, a look of utter exasperation on his face.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Tony cried. His normally quiet, gentle voice had taken on a harsher tone, a temperamental edge typically reserved for those fiercely argumentative days of their youth. Mike couldn’t remember him using such a voice in a very long time.

“Sorry, sorry,” he called back, feeling his face flush very hot. “My fault, I missed the cue. Run again.”

“Ugh, bloody…” Tony muttered to himself, still loud enough for Mike to hear. He backtracked and effortlessly repeated the flutter of chords prior to the mistake, then stopped, watching Mike with a look of intense annoyance. He briefly pressed his whole hand into the keys with a discordant noise, and said in a slightly less irritated tone of voice:

“Mike, is there something wrong? Are you ill?”

“Me? No, I’m fine.”

“You’ve been distracted all day and it’s getting to me, too. I thought you might be ill.”

“I’m all right, Tony, don’t worry.” He cleared his throat and straightened his shoulders, vowing silently not to be caught in such a ridiculous daydream again.

Phil caught his eye as they started the soundcheck again. He said nothing, only grinned as he kicked the tambourine into the air and caught it on its way down.

Mike smiled back and gripped the bass frets a little tighter. That had been a pretty good daydream, actually. But there would be time to pitch the idea to Phil later.

For now, they had a show to do.


	3. Chapter 3

“You're wearing that shirt?”

Mike frowned indignantly as he settled into the driver's seat and pulled at the front of his shirt, the light breezy number with the blue-on-white broken china pattern. “What's wrong with it?”

“Oh, nothing. I just thought it was a little unseasonal.”

Mike took a moment to critically survey Tony's outfit for the evening. He had to admit his friend was looking smart, his black sport coat nicely fitted over a pressed white shirt, unbuttoned low at the throat, and a pair of dark gray trousers. It was monochrome and simple and typically classy. Typically Tony.

“Well I'm not cold, if that's what you're worried about,” Mike said, and shrugged. He turned the key in the ignition and listened for the engine's purr, waiting for it to warm up a bit against the late autumn chill.

“No no, it's just that the jacket doesn't quite, uh...” Tony paused and gestured at Mike's off-white cotton jacket. Or it would have been mostly white, if not for the threads of every imaginable pastel color that zig-zagged, patchwork-like, through the weave like streaks of smeared paint. Mike adjusted the lapels as he admired his dress choice.

“Oh. D'you think it clashes?” he said with a grin.

“Erm. Not at all,” Tony replied. His mouth twitched, unable to keep a straight face. Pretty soon they were both laughing as Mike backed the car out of the hotel parking garage and into the cold midnight streets.

Their tour had kicked off beautifully in the American midwest, and with the night's show complete, they still had a couple days to stay in Rosemont before it was time to move on again. In the happy champagne glow of the backstage party, Daryl had mentioned some exclusive Chicago nightclub he had visited before. The whole VIP treatment, the guitarist had assured them, they could enjoy some drinks and a nice late dinner without the rush of excited fans. Mike had already forgotten the name of the place, but Daryl had (perhaps wisely) left directions with Tony in case they wanted to catch up and meet there. Business casual dress, he'd said. Nothing too fancy.

Well. Mike smoothed a free hand over his deliberate choice of pastel fashion. This seemed right enough.

He shifted into higher gear and they picked up speed on the freeway. The unmistakable new-car smell lingered in his nose, that tantalizing odor of leather and fresh rubber, and he tapped his fingers on the shining steering wheel. This was the sort of night he enjoyed best for driving. Crisp and clear, with a promise of something exciting and just a little dangerous lurking in the neon city lights. Just him and Tony. Banks and Cloete, Cloete and Banks.... look out, Phil, the partners in crime were on their way.

He flipped the dial on the car radio hoping for some appropriate nighttime driving tunes. Instead he was greeted with:

_Weeellll, it's Saturday night and I'm still free, and I ain't never gonna be  
Eaten by the monster of loooove..._

They laughed.

“Say, that's one of ours, isn't it?” Mike joked. Tony just shook his head, trying very hard not to snicker.

Mike kept it on The Sparks for a minute longer, bobbing his head to the beat, before he decided it simply wasn't right and switched the station. This time, he was not disappointed by the familiar voice drifting through the speakers:

_I'm going down, going down, like a monkey, ooh, but it's all right  
Try to pick yourself up, carry that weight that you can't see, don't you know it's all right..._

“Ah, well then.” Mike swayed unconsciously to the harsh sliding guitar riffs before he heard Tony snort quietly.

“We just did this! We can't get away from it!” Tony groaned. But he was smiling.

Mike grinned back. The whole world, it seemed, was abuzz with Genesis. This fame, this connection with so many people, was like nothing he had ever dreamed of experiencing. It forever held his soul in a kind of glittering, fragile unreality. He watched the passing streetlights arc over the pristine black hood of the rental Cadillac as the song played on.

It might not be Miami, he thought, turning up the volume. But this might be the next best thing.

They did not have far to go, and before long the Chicago skyline gleamed before them. It was a beautiful sight, but at the moment Mike seemed distracted by something else. He flicked his eyes again at the rear view mirror.

“Tony, I think someone's following us.”

“What? Are you sure?” Tony peered into the side mirror with a worried frown.

“That silver car behind us... I think it's been tailing us for the past mile. I didn't want to say anything, but—”

“Maybe it's only going the same way as us?” offered Tony. But as he spoke the silver car drifted worryingly close behind them and flashed its brights. Mike felt his heart jump.

“Oh. What do we do? What if it's the police?” Tony's betrayed a waver of fear.

The pursuer's lights flashed again, and this time the horn sounded twice in quick succession. Mike frowned. In his many years on tour, he had been pulled over for speeding a few more times than he cared to admit, but somehow this didn't seem like the cops' usual M.O.

“Paparazzi, more like,” he muttered. “Or someone very impatient.” He pushed the accelerator a little harder, urging the car at a faster clip down the freeway. But the silver car only kept pace. With a squeal of tires, the pursuers clipped into the right lane and matched their speed, driving just alongside. They honked again.

“What on earth?” Tony's voice was even more anxious now. And when Tony was anxious, he often got angry. Mike watched as Tony waved frantically at the pursuers through the tinted passenger window.

“Go around! Idiots, go around!” Tony hissed. But no one was visible in the other car, just a shining reflection of themselves in the similarly-tinted glass. And still they kept pace.

“Oh no. Mike, do something...”

Mike gritted his teeth. Adrenaline was streaming in his veins yet he remained acutely aware of many things at once—the rising speedometer, the sting of sweat on his forehead, the tense synths of “Tonight, Tonight, Tonight” still pounding on the radio.

_You keep telling me I got everything! You say I got everything I want..._

It all seemed familiar somehow.

_You keep telling me you're gonna help me, you're gonna help me, but you don't!_

It was in that instant that Mike realized just what had to be done.

“Hang on, pal,” he said, and swung the wheel hard to the left, screeching into the other lane.

He never knew a man was capable of the sort of high-pitched yelp Tony was emitting at this very moment. In any other moment it might have been very funny, but he sounded terrified.

“Jesus Christ, Mike!”

“I said hang on!”

_But noooow I'm in too deep! You see it's got me so that I just can't sleep. Oooh, get me out of here..._

With a manic grin, Mike banked a hard right, skidding across three lanes of traffic and flying onto the exit ramp. The pursuing car threw on the brakes, stunned, before accelerating in the direction of the next exit.

“Ha ha, we did it! Lost 'em!” Mike crowed.

“Slow down! You're not on the freeway now!” Tony cried, clinging white-knuckled to his own seatbelt.

But Mike was on a roll now. There was no stopping him. The rest of his reckless driving adventure passed in a confused blur, and since he unfortunately he had no idea where he was going, and may very well have run a red light or two in his haste to avoid the other motorists. The blare of horns and shrieking tires kicked up in his wake. Amazingly, there was not a single cop anywhere in sight.

“Pull over, Michael!” Tony demanded furiously. It seemed he'd finally had enough. “Pull—”

“Ahhh!”

Mike stomped on the brake as a certain silver car loomed into view on the upcoming cross street and screeched to a stop in front of them. With no time to avoid it, Mike hauled on the wheel and miraculously careened right into a well-placed alley. Sparks flew up as the driver's side door plowed into the concrete wall, scraping with a noise of tortured metal that set his teeth on edge. Trash cans and assorted rubbish piles scattered before them in all directions. Somehow, and Mike would never find out just how, they stalled, fishtailed, and spun about a full 180 degrees, finally skidding to a halt just short of the concrete walls— but not before Mike heard a sickening thump and realized it was the sound of Tony's head knocking into the passenger window.

“Oww!”

“Oh my God, Tony, are you all right?”

The silver car pulled up to the alley, blocking any possible exit, and Mike's heart leapt into his throat. Was this, then, the final shootout?

“Stay here. Don't move!” Without knowing exactly what he did, he leaped out of the car and braced himself for the inevitable confrontation. His heart pounded fast and he felt his hands ball into fists as the silver car's rear door opened and out stepped a very perplexed, very upset...

“Phil?!”

“Jesus, Mike! What the fuck were you doing?” Phil ranted. “We saw the car and figured it was you, but you sped off! Didn't you recognize us?”

“Uhhh...” Mike watched as Chester and Daryl stepped onto the damp pavement, staring back at him with equally astonished faces.

“We were all set to call the police and everything! Thought something was terribly wrong... Daryl was only having a bit of fun, chasing after you that way. Did you think we wanted a drag race or something? Bloody hell.” Phil swept the stray strands of hair back from his forehead and paced back and forth, still keyed-up and shaking with adrenaline. The cuffs of his expensive gray silk trousers dragged in the sodden gutter but he didn't seem to notice.

“Phil, it's okay. Just a misunderstanding, I—I thought you were someone else, coming after us. I don't know what I was thinking.”

“Someone else? A misunderstanding?!” Phil looked ready to explode, but Daryl intervened.

“Mike, I'm real sorry. I didn't think we'd scare you but we should have known better.” The guitarist came closer and looked him over with the most apologetic eyes he'd ever seen. “You're all right though, nothing broken? You okay too, Tony?”

“Yes. I'll be all right.” Tony had opened the door and was already standing beside the car. His voice was low and breathy as he rubbed his temple.

“You hit your head? You gonna be okay?”

“Yes, nothing serious. Just a little bump, I'm okay.”

Mike's heart sank. He suspected it would be a while before Tony would be 'okay' again, emotionally.

“You sure? Do we need to take you to the hospital?”

“No, no, I'm quite sure.”

“That's a relief,” Daryl continued. “D'you still feel like going to the club? You don't have to, we can always cancel.”

Mike paused and glanced at the rubbernecking crowd already starting to gather in the street. Nobody seemed aware of just who had smashed up the alley, but the commotion had been enough to attract unwanted attention. It might be wise to make tracks while they could.

“N-no, I'm up for it,” he replied. Tony nodded his assent, too.

“Great. Yeah, let's get out of here before anyone else shows up. Listen, you and Tony get in the back, I'll drive you there. It's still driveable, right?”

“I should think so.”

“Yeah, seems okay. You're lucky! All right. Phil, Chester, we'll see you there in a few minutes.”

“Sure thing, man.” With one last incredulous look back, Chester took his place in the driver's seat of the silver car. “Ready, Phil?”

“Yeah, yeah. Just a second.” Phil stopped pacing long enough to catch his breath. He let out a huge sigh and spread his arms wide, gathering Mike and Tony in the tightest bear hug he could muster.

“Auuugh. Don't do that again, okay?”

“Okay. I won't.” Mike grunted as he felt the air squeezed from his lungs but he returned the embrace in kind. Time seemed to stand still as they all gripped tightly to each other, silently reassuring 'I am here.' Here in some unknown disgusting alley in the late Chicago night, perhaps, but here. There was something faintly absurd about it and yet Mike could not pull away. Phil rested against his chest softly.

“See you soon,” he murmured. Then, more loudly as he walked to the car, “Tony, you keep him safe, awright? This one's always been trouble, he has.” With a laugh and a bright smile of relief, he disappeared into the back of the car and Chester drove away.

Mike traced a finger over the long scratches on their Cadillac as Daryl started the engine. They would pay the rental company extra, that's all. No trouble.

Nothing serious.

He sighed and rubbed his face as he eased next to Tony in the back seat. A swirl of emotions assaulted his brain. He wanted to gather his friend to his chest, to hold him close and rub his bruised head and apologize for his own stupidity again and again.

But at this moment Tony seemed so distant. Angry, perhaps. Or stunned.

Or did he not know how to express himself, either?

 

* * *

 

The sound of police sirens wailed in the distant streets. The hotel room was dim; a table lamp and the blue glow from the television provided the only moody light. But they were here, and they were safe. The madness of the city chase and the half-remembered dinner at the Neon Nightclub were just memories now, soon to be forgotten. There had been no intrigue, no shady criminal deals, no forbidden excitement in the world of vice. Just old friends. And somehow, that came as a relief.

Tony stood at the open window with crossed arms, hoping to catch a breath of fresh air. He fidgeted and sighed through his nose once or twice. Then he leaned on the windowsill and ran a hand through his dark tangled hair, wiping the nervous sweat from his brow.

Mike watched him guiltily from his seat on the bed. He knew that Tony couldn't shake lingering anxiety so easily, and even after they had all relaxed slightly over dinner, he still felt terrible for having subjected him to his own demented imaginings. He rubbed the back of his neck and gazed at his friend's austere profile silhouetted against the streetlights.

“Tony, I'm so sorry. I really don't know what came over me.”

“Obviously.”

Tony turned away from the window and grazed a hand over his bruised temple. Without a word he retrieved his water from the nightstand and drained the last of it.

“We might have been killed tonight,” he murmured.

“I know. That's what frightens me,” said Mike. He flipped dully through a few more channels, not paying the least attention to them. “I don't know what I would have done if...” He didn't want to even finish the thought.

Tony paused, silently pondering the same thing. Then he smiled tightly and put down the empty glass.

“I will say one thing. I never want to do that again. But if you do ever decide to audition for that program of yours, I really think you'd be a natural.”

Mike blinked. He didn't say anything for several seconds as he searched Tony's solemn blue eyes for any hint of sarcasm. But there was none.

“That's... that's very kind of you,” Mike finally said. He smiled softly and held out a welcoming hand. “Would you like to come to bed, then?”

In answer, Tony silently crossed the room, his eyes still locked with Mike's, and undid his shirt. Eagerly Mike reached up to touch his gorgeous face and pull him closer, allowing their lips to meet in a sweet lingering kiss. He never wanted to let him go again.

_Here comes the night, here comes the dreaming of you  
Breathing your love in me..._

At the sound of his familiar song coming from the TV (even he had to admit the timing was almost too perfect), Mike couldn't help but open one eye, glancing at the screen. In the resulting burst of excitement he was forced to break the kiss.

“Oh! Look!” he cried.

“What? What's wrong?”

“Look, it's a Vice rerun! And it's the one with the Mechanics song at the beginning!”

_There's a time and there's a place, when we can share the silver night  
Silent room. In my bed an empty space...”_

Tony frowned mightily, extremely displeased at this interruption.“Excuse me, but weren't we about to—”

“Shh, in a minute.” Mike had already gone into his glazed trance, utterly distracted even from the promise of intimacy. There would be no getting him back now. Tony petulantly turned over and lay on his side, scowling.

“Goodnight, Mike,” he grumbled, and shut his eyes.

This was going to be a long, long tour.


End file.
